


Vigil

by Piscaria



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Doyle
Genre: Character Study, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-26
Updated: 2009-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:52:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd left one hand one my shoulder, and now he leaned in close to peer through the grimy window, feigning the need for a better view, although I've no doubt that his sharp eyes pierced the darkness better than my own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vigil

"Watson," he whispered, and I woke. After a moment, my eyes made sense of the darkness, and I saw his face before me, eyes shining with excitement. "They are coming," he said quietly. I stifled a yawn and climbed to my feet, rubbing my neck, which had cramped from the few fitful hours of sleep I stole against the wall of Lord Hugh Breathnach's garden shed. Holmes' hands caught my shoulders, driving me forward, and he practically marched me to the grimy window, overhung with a few stray strands of ivy. In the darkness beneath the trees, I could just make out the broad-shouldered figure of Lord Breathnach's butler, arguing fervently with a young man dressed in gardener's clothes. With a start, I recognized the second man as the same lad I'd met earlier in the drawing room.

"Is that," I began, and he shushed me, grinning with devilish delight. Only Holmes could be pleased to see that a young and prominent member of one of Britain's most noble families had somehow been caught in a web of common crime.

"You'll see, Watson,"he murmured. He'd left one hand one my shoulder, and now he leaned in close to peer through the grimy window, feigning the need for a better view, although I've no doubt that his sharp eyes pierced the darkness better than my own. I allowed him the ruse, and leaned back against him, my attention divided between the scene taking place before us and the solid heat of his chest against my back, his faint scent of tobacco. Over the years, I've grown accustomed to dividing my attention thus.

During several nighttime vigils, I've felt his hand creep into mine, no doubt in what he considers to be an attempt at comfort. He could have spared himself the deception. Although my nerves have never quite recovered from my illness in Afghanistan, I think I can reasonably say that I am a steady man, not inclined to cowardice. Indeed, he knows as much, for he has never belittled my willingness to follow him into danger, although he has often despaired of my acting abilities.

And though I'd like to bristle at his lack of confidence in me, I cannot bring myself to take offense. It is enough that I can keep this secret, the long fingers of his hand curling almost diffidently around my shoulder, his breath tickling my ear. Aloof by nature, Holmes nonetheless did not entirely escape the basic need for human companionship. In these small ways, he demonstrates his affection for me, allowing himself the closeness he shuns during the day.

I have often wondered whether he purposefully plans his investigations so as to require us to spend the night keeping watch in some darkened and confined place -- a garden shed, a wardrobe, an empty house, the basement of a bank. That is his secret to keep, for I would not dream of asking him, just as I would not dream of pressing him for more than he is willing to relinquish in these moments. His hand is on my shoulder, his arm against my back. It is enough. Holmes' weaknesses are mine to protect, even from his own awareness. Were he to discover these lapses, he would surely end them. and that would not do for either of us. So I shall keep silent. I shall follow his lead. And I shall dare only to lean back slightly against him, to breathe in the scent of his tobacco and to watch his narrow face through the corner of my eye.

Burning with energy and practically trembling with anticipation, he has already detected something that I've missed out in the orchard, an exchanging of money, maybe, or some harsh words that escaped my duller ears. In a second, he is out the door and running for the villains. I lift my revolver from the workbench and follow.


End file.
